Page 32 of Graciously His

His voice is less chipper than usual. “Boss, there’s a massive spread between New Zealand dollars and Bitcoin. I’ve got complaints in the hundreds with people thinking we’ve stolen their motherfucking money.”

I open the app on my laptop. “What have you been telling the clients?”

Radio silence.

“Dare,” I growl, “what have you been saying to the clients?”

“It was Nick’s job to deal with shit like this, boss.” For the first time since I poached him from university eight years ago, he sounds unsure. “I tried telling them it was just a latency hiccup, but you know I’m fucking useless at talking to clients and—”

“What else did you tell them?”

“Nothing—I called you!”

“Fuck,” I mutter, already sorting client lists, focusing on active users within the last twenty-four hours. Normally, Nick would have been on top of this, using his charm to smooth everything out. “Okay, I’ll handle client outreach. What have you done to narrow the spread?”

His panic subsides as he enumerates his actions. I listen carefully as I put up a banner that’ll display to users on-app. That done, I get started on an apology email.

“Good,” I say when Dare pauses to catch his breath. “Did you add a raw token amount alongside fiat conversion?”

“Not yet, but that’s next once I finish the current patch.”

“Long-term solution?” I demand.

He runs through a list, typing on his end all the while. Finally, his voice takes on a hopeless tone. “What we really need is a replacement for Nick. And I’m guessing that’ll mean at least two hires. One for clients, and one CFO.”

“Got it,” I say. “I’ll finish client outreach and start looking for someone on that end. If you know anyone—”

He’s ahead of me. “My cousin’s looking for work.”

“He as smart as you?”

“Pff, what do you think?”

“Send me his contact details anyway. Anything else you need from my end?”

“Yeah, I want to know if you’re fucking okay, boss.”

“Fuck off, Dare,” I answer, letting my voice warm for the first time in the conversation. I let my tone say what my words don’t: this is a totally normal hiccup after a big launch, and he’s done well despite his panic. I make a note to give him today’s profits as well as yesterday’s.

“Fucking off,” he confirms.

Dare hangs up, and I listen to the distant sound of water running. Grace is in the shower, the bullet journal is on its way, and I need to follow up with both my PI and lawyer. So damn much to do. But before I can get to any of that, I have to dip into Nick’s voice and suck up to our pissed-off clients. I feel myself sneer as I finish the email with all the sincerity of my deceased twin.

Chapter 16

Grace

I’ve been granted a reprieve. Nate practically ran to answer the work call, which gives me time to consider how I’m going to handle today without the distraction of him. I’m tempted to look through the closet first, to see exactly how far his obsessive preparation has gone, but showering alone is more important for now.

I could have taken control of the situation when I woke up in Nate’s arms this morning. He slept so deeply, let me go so easily that I’m sure I could have taken his keys and left. It’s true now, too. I could put on the beautiful clothes—a maroon merino tunic and a pair of black leggings, complete with bra, camisole, and undies, all in the correct sizes—and head out. I could plug my phone in and call a car. I could run.

But I find that all I want is a quiet shower.

The bathroom is white on white, with a few beachy accents tying into the bedroom’s sea glass motif: a jar of shells on the window sill, light brown towels, and a macrame tapestry on the retaining wall. There’s an antique clawfoot bathtub under a clerestory window and a modern shower on the opposite wall. Somehow, it all works perfectly. I make a note to ask Nate if he put together the master suite decor on his own. If an interior designer was involved, I need a name so the rest of the house can have the same treatment.

My breathing stutters as I recognise the train of my own thoughts.

Even as I’m aching from what he did to me last night, part of me is decorating and planning, spinning a future where this house becomes my project. I force myself to remember what he did, but that doesn’t lead to the reaction I want. I should feel fear. Disgust. Horror, even. But I don’t.